


Child Captain

by avtorSola



Category: Bleach
Genre: Blood and Injury, Don't copy to another site, Fake Science, First Aid, Gen, Major Character Injury, Mild Gore, OC POV, This is not how you deal with being stabbed in the stomach, if it wasn't clear that you shouldn't take life advice from fanfic, mature for graphic depictions of injury, some hard-hitting feels too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 05:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21010148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avtorSola/pseuds/avtorSola
Summary: In which lower-ranked member of the Tenth Division realizes that, cold and imposing though he seems, his captain is a nothing more than a lost child crying for a friend, and that watching a child die is almost a thousand times more painful that watching his captain die.AKA, a 10th Division medic realizes his captain is barely scraping teenager, and yet somehow they expect him to be an adult.





	Child Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! It's been a long while since I've written anything for Bleach (or in general), but I've been trying a lot of oneshots to get my writing juice flowing again.
> 
> This particular oneshot is something I started almost two years ago, and just finished today, so if there's any rough switches in tense or tone, I apologize. Starting my writing kick after last year...it's been rough, folks.
> 
> Oh, and ye! Hitsugaya is mentally a young teen in this fic. I know it varies across my fics as to his psychological age, but here he's definitely young.

The howling of the Hollows outside was beginning to get louder, the echoing shrieks rattling the loose stones against the smooth cavern floor. Yamada Daichi - no relation to Yamada Hanatarou, as he’d explained to anyone willing to listen - cowered on the stone ground, his Asauchi held in trembling hands, the three shinigami laid out on the limestone slabs beside him in various stages of mild medical emergency. Two of the three were moaning lightly, one felled by a stab wound to the calf and the other by a long slice across her thigh, and the third was unconscious, blood trickling from a light cut on his temple where his head had struck a boulder. He glanced at them with a quivering lower lip, then tried to gather his courage, his grip tightening on the hilt of his Asauchi. How had a simple patrol gone so wrong? It was supposed to be easy - wipe out a few Hollows, then boom, done, and he’s back in Seireitei spending his hazard pay at the onsen with his buddies and spying on the girls next door. Even the Captain had said that the patrol was supposed to be routine, the clear agitation making his brow twitch when he’d joined them caused by overwork and stress rather than worry. They’d been overjoyed to see him, even if it meant that he was stressed to the point where he needed to blow off steam, because it meant that the patrol would undoubtedly be a walk in the park. And they’d still get hazard pay.

And then it had all gone to hell. They’d reached the 44th district without issue and set up their camp smoothly, but when dawn had broken the next day the glutinous stench of Hollows had materialized out of nowhere. The shinigami set out immediately only to find that on the hilly, cave-riddled grasslands between the 44th and 45th districts an army of Hollows had appeared overnight. It was far too many for the patrol of eight shinigami to take down on their own. But their Captain had come with them, and so they weren’t worried. Before the Captain could even give out orders, they were already moving, cutting down Hollows left and right as quickly as they could, and that had been their mistake.

Their only warning had been their Captain’s yell of defiance as he’d leapt between the group of eight and the needle-like spear of bone arcing towards them. His sacrifice had been costly, however, and instead of impacting the earth and shattering their less-durable bodies with concussive force, the long, bony spire had slid through his stomach, impaling him cleanly in a single strike. An Arrancar had orchestrated the whole scene, and they’d fallen straight into its trap. The Arrancar had been easily dispatched by their Captain - wounded or not, he was still a prodigy and wielded a blade legendary for its power. But he’d been injured, and it had clearly crippled him to some extent. Even though he’d assured them in his usual cold manner that he was capable of handling his own injury, nobody missed the wincing that accompanied his footwork or the significantly accelerated rate at which he tired.

“Assistance is on its way, Yamada.”

The chill tone, drenched in concern and reassurance left unsaid, was familiar in its biting directness, but there was a distinct tremor in the young tenor that had Yamada’s healer-hackles rising. He looked up with wide eyes. Captain Hitsugaya stood wearily in front of him, his pure white hair almost luminous in the dim light of the caves, the black and white of his haori splattered with camouflaging mud, gore, and grime. He stood awkwardly, his Zanpakutou clenched unnecessarily tightly in one small fist, and as Yamada watched the young shinigami swayed slightly. Almost immediately his worry-meter jumped several notches up. Captain Hitsugaya didn’t _sway_, like some weak-limbed willow tree. He didn’t - _shit_, that was a waver. _Shit._

“Y-yes sir.” Yamada said, staring nervously. Hitsugaya seemed to misunderstand the anxious gaze.

“I received a Hell Butterfly from Ukitake-taicho.” he elaborated, his voice noticeably weakening on the last few words. “They’re three hours out. As long as our defenses hold this cave, we will all survive this.”

Hearing that _was_ a relief for Yamada, but only because - _shit!_

Hitsugaya had stumbled from a standing position, his limbs visibly trembling through the gloom. The distinct crack of the ice which the young captain had used to seal his wound echoed like a gunshot in the cave. On the side, where two of the three not on watch were sleeping, the sound snapped like a firecracker, instantly jolting the sleeping shinigami from their rest. Yamada stared at Hitsugaya in horror as the young teenager swayed again and rose from his seat by the three injured shinigami lying on pallets. Hitsugaya gazed forlornly at Yamada as the older shinigami hurriedly closed the gap between them, hands out uncertainly. There was recognition mixed with childlike realization in his eyes, as if he was just now comprehending how awful his injury was. The ice-wielder slowly moved a hand to his abdomen, gingerly touching the skin about the tear in the fabric. He blinked.

“It’s…it’s hot…” he mumbled in surprise, the sheer innocent confusion in his eyes making him seem very young suddenly. The creaky sounds of cracking ice continuing to chip away reached their ears in awful clarity, and almost on autopilot Yamada reached toward the bag of medical supplies hanging from his shoulders. The two other shinigami shot to their feet, eyes wide in terror as Hitsugaya swayed even more violently, shaking like a leaf caught in a stiff breeze. And then the white-haired boy fell, collapsing sideways with two staggering half-steps. Yamada yelled, lunging forward to catch the white-haired teenager before his head could strike stone, the glasslike-shattering sound of the ice which the prodigy captain had used to seal his wound giving way to a sickening _splurch_ as warm blood splattered the limestone beneath their feet.

Hitsugaya coughed wetly, struggling weakly against Yamada’s grip despite how he was now bleeding all over the older man with alarming rapidity.

“Yamada.” he choked weakly, his body starting to slacken, and with a flash of horror the squad medic - he _was not_ related to that Fourth Division weakling, for the last time! - realized that the small captain was burning from the inside out, his pale skin flushed with fever and damp with sweat. His dark eyes dilated to tiny pinpricks of terror.

“Lay out a pallet, you idiots! And give me some light and boil water!” he snapped at the two other shinigami, who were still staring stupidly at the terrifying scene in front of them. His tone of voice jolted them into motion, and within seconds Yamada had carried the injured teenager over to the sterile plastic mat and carefully laid the ice-wielder down in the center of the steady shine of several lanterns. Hitsugaya hissed faintly, trying to sit up, but Yamada quickly gestured for his two squadmates to hold the young man down, apologizing profusely to the prodigy as he carefully pulled the stained haori from his captain’s shoulders and cut the boy’s sticky, grimy kosode off.

Yamada froze at the sight of the wound, then cursed in every language he knew, panic filling his movements as he began to work. This was bad - the worst possible kind of bad. Blood leaked rapidly from the wound in a steady flow, painting the fleshy innards inside in scarlet death, but that wasn’t the worst part. There were streaks of red in the boy’s skin surrounding the wound site, and the edges of the puncture were shiny, red, and puffy, swelled with infection. Greenish pus leaked from deep within the bloody, gory hole, mixing with the steady pulse of blood, and Yamada knew without further examination that it was likely that there was an abscess somewhere in the wound. He gritted his teeth, pulling supplies from the medical pack, then grabbed a short wooden dowel and wrapped it in two layers of leather. He held it to Hitsugaya’s lips, ignoring the cross look the young man gave him and the snapped, trembling order to let him go. The two shinigami holding him down looked confused, caught between following his orders or forcing him to receive medical attention. Yamada took a deep breath.

“Hitsugaya-taicho, as the squad medic, I hereby place you in medical custody due to the presence of a Grade 3 injury with critical complications.” the dark-haired medic said firmly. “You are relieved of command.”

The sheer shock that snapped across the white-haired teenager’s chalk-and-cherry face was very genuine, and Yamada pressed the leather-wrapped stick a little closer to the young man’s lips. As the field medic of the Tenth Division’s Squad Four, he alone had the authority to relieve others of command for medical purposes, but he’d never dreamed he’d had to use that power to medically override his own captain’s orders. He swallowed hard, already dreading what he was going to have to do to stop the infection.

“Please bite down on this, sir.” he said softly. “This is going to hurt a _lot_, and I don’t have time to sedate you, nor will your blood volume be high enough to circulate a sedative properly in the next few minutes.”

The jade stare was blank, as if the teenager was offended but trying to hide it, and after a long moment the young man allowed Yamada to slip the rod between his teeth, looking distinctly upset despite the fact that he was quickly fading from full awareness, blood loss and fever combining in deadly potency. Then and only then did Yamada allow his hands to glow green with the sterilizing healing kido - the kaido - his dark glare determined. He lifted the now-bubbling pot of boiling water from the small fire that Fukishima had made, pouring the hot liquid into two sterile containers which he dripped antiseptics and antibiotics into in liberal amounts. Hitsugaya saw this out of the corner of his eye, the hazy gaze slowly widening in dread-laden understanding. The severity of his injury seemed to dawn on him in terrifying clarity, and suddenly the childlike terror flashed back into the green eyes. Yamada felt his heart clench painfully at the sight, but he forced himself to ignore the way his captain’s struggles had grown panicked, rife with fear.

Yamada looked grimly at the two pinning the boy to the ground, his dark stare dour.

“Hold him down. This will hurt him.” he said, his voice merciless with stern gravity. Then he took a soft, soft cloth in his kaido-lit hand, dunked it in the searing-hot cleaning solution, and without hesitation slid the dripping cloth into Hitsugaya’s wound. It took a second for the pain to register, the boy’s nerves deadened by the numbing power of his ice, but the blazing heat made short work of that last layer of protection. Hitsugaya’s entire body tensed, and he jerked violently against the two holding him down, pupils dilating to nothing as he let a strangled scream echo around the rod in his mouth, teeth clenching. He spasmed against the hands clamping down on his shoulders, torso, and legs, and on the last piercing note of his scream the sound broke into distinct sob of wide-eyed pain that everyone refused to acknowledge. Yamada winced at the sound of his child-captain’s cry of agony, but continued the long process of cleaning the infected wound and stopping the bleeding with kaido, fighting with the knowledge that Hitsugaya’s youth was resurfacing in painful clarity. Blood and pus gushed around the white cloth, staining it with the telltale stench of infection, the sickening squelch of the leaking fluids enough to make Yamada feel like losing his lunch.

Fukishima and Oshiro gaped in horror, then looked pointedly away from their captain’s flushed-yet-pale face, fighting to keep him still as he contorted in a desperate attempt to escape the burning pain as the dark-haired medic carefully cleaned out the jagged hole. Then Yamada removed his hand, rinsed the cloth in one of the antiseptic basins, and dipped the cloth back into the cleaning solution to repeat the process, drawing a fresh, agonized scream and sob from the struggling teenager as the hot, antibiotic-laced water seared his wound. This exact formula was followed over and over, Hitsugaya’s restrained thrashing growing weaker and weaker as consciousness slipped from him, his screams fading into weak moans of whimpering pain as he drifted into the dark. Eventually the young prodigy fainted entirely, his breaths rapid and shallow, his pulse humming in the side of his throat, but Yamada by this point had drained the abscess he’d found deep in the boy’s inner tissues and completely cleaned the wound of pus and the grime which had likely caused the infection in the first place. Even the profuse bleeding had been stemmed with kaido, and as Oshiro and Fukishima watched silently, still gently holding their unconscious captain’s limbs and torso to the pallet, Yamada packed the puncture wound with sterile wound dressings and wrapped the teenager’s middle with clean white bandages.

And finally, the ordeal was over.

Hitsugaya lay pale and still on the bloodstained pallet, his body still burning with fever, his expressive glare lidded, the deep shadows under his closed eyes giving him an unhealthy, corpselike appearance. His skin, bloodless as it was, was only a few insignificant shades darker than the white bandages wrapped about his stomach. With Fukishima’s help, the medic moved the unconscious child to a clean pallet, wiping the blood and grime off the young man’s overheated skin with cool water. Once Hitsugaya was situated, Yamada carefully filled a bag with sterile saline solution and general antibiotics and attached it to a makeshift drip, sliding a disposable IV catheter into the underside of Hitsugaya’s pale arm and taping the needle and shunt in place. The medic carefully hung the bag a few inches above the catheter using a small metal stand, then watched with a pinched face as the medicated saline steadily began to drip into the young captain’s bloodstream.

Off to the side, Oshiro gaped openly at the process, horror on his face.

“Wh-What’s the IV for, Yamada?” he asked weakly, obviously shaken by his captain’s screams of terrified pain and the way the boy now lay lifelessly on a clean white sheet, his small body limp. The dark-haired medic didn’t look up from where he sat monitoring his captain’s condition, but his brows furrowed together.

“Antibiotics.” he said shortly. “The wound is infected - that’s why I had to clean it so thoroughly. And he’s lost a lot of blood. The saline should help elevate his blood pressure slightly and relieve some of the stress on his heart.”

Fukishima swallowed hard.

“No painkillers?” he mumbled faintly. Yamada looked up, rueful anger on his face.

“There’s no point.” the medic said after a long moment. “You felt the captain’s skin when you were pinning him down - did you _feel_ how hot his fever is? And it’s gotten worse. If he wakes up at all in the next three hours, he’s not going to be lucid. I’ve got him on fever reducers instead.”

The thought had a sobering effect on the three shinigami present. Their captain was completely out of commission, they had four out of a nine-man patrol wounded and one needed for medical purposes, and there were at least ninety Hollows milling aimlessly about outside the cave. And Ukitake-taicho was still about three hours away. In short, it was four on ninety, and there were five people that had to be protected at all costs, one of whom was the Division’s commanding officer.

The odds weren’t good, at all.

An hour later their Tenth Seat came stumbling back into the cave, looking exhausted, her brown eyes dull with mental strain. She had been keeping watch at the entrance to the small cave they’d found, making sure that there were no Hollows small enough to slip through the gap that only Hitsugaya had been able to pass through without crouching. Yukimura had been with her, a recent transfer from the Seventh who was only a few steps away from learning his Zanpakutou’s name. He came tottering back a few minutes after, obviously just as tired, but looking satisfied.

“We managed…to put a barrier over the entrance.” he panted. “Tenth Seat Takada and I…cast Kyomon together…after Taicho restored our reiatsu.”

Fukishima and Oshiro let out sighs of relief, but Yamada only gave a tight smile, passing another dose of kaido over the puncture through Hitsugaya’s gut. The unconscious teenager whimpered lightly, his voice weak yet plaintive with an unspoken plea for relief, and shifted just enough to make the damp, cool washcloth laid over his burning forehead fall off. Yamada grunted in annoyance, then glanced up.

“Fukishima, put the washcloth back on his forehead, would you? I really need his fever to stay as low as we can get it.” he said tiredly. The man in question turned his head, eyes flicking to Hitsugaya’s unconscious face, and he bit his lip as he did as Yamada instructed, carefully redampening the cloth and folding it over his captain’s forehead. There was a soft intake of breath from Takada and Yukimura, their expressions tightening in shock as they realized that Hitsugaya had joined the three lying wounded on the ground, his small face flushed scarlet across the cheeks but white as chalk everywhere else. Takada knelt at the small prodigy’s side, the dull brown of her gaze roaring back to life in a flare of worry. Carefully, she pressed two fingers to the side of the boy’s throat, searching for the pulse. She found it after a moment, weak and fluttery, like a butterfly had slid under his ghost-pale skin. Her gaze flicked up to the squad’s medic.

“How bad is it, Yamada?” she asked, her voice a low undertone. Yamada shot a glare at Fukishima, Yukimura, and Oshiro that quickly spooked them off to the other side of the cavern, then sighed with obvious anxiety.

“I told him it was Grade 3 with critical complications when I put him in medical custody.” he said after a short pause, his voice low. “But the infection is worse than I thought. If his fever gets any worse, I’ll have to classify this as a Grade 4.”

Takada slowly paled. A Grade 3 injury was bad enough, and would usually require a few days in the Fourth Division’s ICU if there were any complications. But Grade 4 meant that unless the patient recieved sophisticated medical attention immediately, their chances of survival dwindled by half with every passing minute. And just looking at Hitsugaya, it was clear that he was straddling that precarious border. He needed surgery to repair the damage done to his internal organs and strong, localized antibiotics to stop the infection, but if his fever got any higher his body would start to shut down to protect itself. But in this case, he was so weak that a shutdown would result in systemic organ failure and death.

Yamada ignored the rapid paling of his Tenth Seat’s face, sliding a thermometer under his captain’s tongue and holding it there while he watched the mercury climb, muttering a distinct prayer as the silver line crept up past 34 (93 Fahrenheit) degrees - the young captain’s usual, lower-than-average body temperature. It began to slow, but it slowed too late. Yamada couldn’t help the soft sob of despair that slipped from his lips, and after staring at the stationary silver liquid for far longer than was necessary he put the thermometer away. Then he took a deep breath and, hand trembling, summoned a Hell Butterfly. The delicate creature landed blankly on his fingertips, wings beating softly.

“This is Yamada Daichi, Tenth Squad Medic of the Tenth Division, calling in a Grade 4 casualty report. Injury consists of impalement wound with a seven centimeter diameter through the lower abdomen and critical infection resulting in a 42 (107.5 Fahrenheit) degree fever. Medical evacuation requested immediately at District 44, Zulu Tango 14328859, security status Black, active enemy present. Priority level Alpha, codename White Lotus, I repeat, casualty codename White Lotus. Additional casualties include one Grade 2 and two Grade 1.”

The implication of the message wasn’t lost on anyone present, and the four other coherent shinigami stared in horror as Yamada shifted positions until he knelt behind his young captain, the unconscious teenager’s head cradled carefully in his lap. He placed two fingers gently on his captain’s carotid artery, taking the young man’s pulse absently, and released the butterfly in a shower of sparks. It flew away quickly. Takada swallowed hard.

“...Taicho is…?” she murmured quietly. Yamada bit his lip.

“Grade 4.” he said, fanning the teenager’s burning face with his free hand, wishing desperately that another ice-wielder was present. “The most I can do for him now is hold vigil and try to keep him cool. And at the least we’ll be here if he passes.”

The thought of their captain’s death was hard to accept even as a concept, but seeing him lying motionlessly on a white mat with his stomach wrapped in bandages and his skin whiter than fine porcelain made that idea uncomfortably real. Yamada ran his fingers through the dirty, sweat-streaked white hair, whispering soft words of encouragement to the patient lying unconscious in his lap. Hitsugaya didn’t respond. The moment he’d lost consciousness when his wound was being cleaned had been the last time he’d been truly awake, and unless Ukitake and his patrol got to their location quickly and had a powerful healer with them, it would likely be the last time their captain would ever be lucid again.

The next hour passed in silence. Kyomon held up brilliantly, the power behind the barrier enough to last at least three days, and Hitsugaya stayed limp, his breaths shallow and irregular, his limbs shivering weakly. His pulse stayed rapid and weak, the beat present but faint, his heart straining against his decreased blood volume and the stress of the infection in his wound. Yamada held him gently, at times running flickers of kaido over the boy’s chalk-white skin, trying desperately to encourage the teenager’s body to persevere, to continue functioning. He wiped the boy’s neck and chest down with the damp washcloths, trying anything to lower the burning fever wreaking havoc on his captain’s diminutive body, but if the treatment worked at all then the only effect was keeping the young captain’s fever from rising any higher.

But then another hour passed, and Hitsugaya’s eyes opened into a half-daze of delirium. Yamada gently kept the head of sweat-slicked white hair in his lap, stroking the boy’s cheeks and murmuring soothing nonsense. The ice-wielder babbled thinly, his words slurred and utterly incoherent though the childlike distress in his tone was painfully clear. The clouded green of his eyes flickered from side to side, rolling but not seeing, his limbs jerking weakly as if he was trying to move but too exhausted to follow through. Tenth Seat Takada watched helplessly with Oshiro, Fukishima, and Yukimura as their captain mumbled feverishly, his ever-keen, ever-cunning gaze stared vacantly, unfocused in the worst way. His shivers began to increase in violence, his white teeth chattering together.

But then, with a spark of confusion and no slight awe from the listening shinigami, the young man’s words cleared enough for them to understand.

“Lem…lemme go. Go’way, Igotta…gotta…” Hitsugaya slurred, staring vapidly at some arbitrary point overhead. His voice was unnaturally emotional, fear and grief and a child’s despair packaged tightly into the weak trail of his thin tenor. “I…n-no, dun…don’ hur me…”

The senseless babble continued for another few moments, resuming the incoherent status his words had previously claimed, and Takada looked up in disbelief.

“Did Taicho…just beg?” she asked tremulously, unwilling to believe it, but then as if to spite her Hitsugaya regained some modicum of strength and slid further into full wakefulness, though his delirium clearly refused to fade. His words cleared into heartbreaking perfection, and his vapid movements became more powerful, his hands going out. Quickly, Takada and Fukishima each seized one of their captain’s small hands in their own, trying to keep the boy as still as possible and prevent him from ripping the makeshift IV from his arm.

“Momo…Momo, please…” he was whimpering, utterly unaware of where he was, the haze of fever over his mind separating him firmly from reality. Yamada cupped the boy’s blazing face in one hand, hissing slightly at the temperature.

“Shh…shh, Taicho, it’s okay.” he said gently, but that didn’t seem to get through. Hitsugaya’s terrified, heartbreakingly sad-sounding babbling intensified.

“No! No, Momo, don’t…don’t leave! Don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t- No! No, I don’t want to be- No, I-” he whimpered. A tear slid from one glazed green eye, falling like crystal across the boy’s whitened face. Yamada’s breath caught at the sight of it.

“My God.” he whispered, a certain kind of horror far more devastating than the thought of losing the Captain of the Tenth starting to dawn on him. Hitsugaya twisted weakly.

“I don’t want to- I can’t! I can’t, I can’t, no, I can’t leave, I don’t want to be a shinigami. I don’t want to, don’t want to- Momo, come _back_, please, I’m _hurting_ her, please, I can’t control it, I don’t want to go- don’t want to, don’t want to be a shinigami. No! Go _away_, you stupid- get out of my head!”

He was thrashing by this point, his injury obviously not reaching through the murk of his fever to slow his movement, and Yamada swore violently as red splotched the white bandages in small droplets. Fukishima and Takada acted immediately, pinning the delirious child down with gentle iron in their grip. Hitsugaya’s emerald stare looked through them, unseeing, sobbing weakly. Slowly, Yamada began to understand what Hitsugaya was babbling about, and tears sparked in the corners of his eyes.

_Get out of my head. Don’t want to be a shinigami. Can’t control it. Momo, come back, please, I’m hurting her. Don’t leave._

Everyone in the division knew that Lieutenant Matsumoto had found the small child in Rukongai, living with his and Lieutenant Hinamori’s aged grandmother, and she had persuaded him to join the Shinou Academy. And yet - these words that this young teenager, this _child_ was crying into the haze of fever and pain were ones of despair and grief and heartbreak.

Hitsugaya had never wanted to be a captain. He was a _child._

Yamada bit his tongue, caught between two warring images, unwilling to let the polished image of his captain shatter in the face of this child’s sobs, yet it was. Agony flashed in his gaze, the unfinished horror he’d begun to realize fully crystallizing in his mind’s eye. And he choked.

“Shh…shh, Toushiro-kun, it’s okay.” he finally whispered. Takada glared vehemently at him, and the other three unseated gaped openmouthed at the blatant use of Hitsugaya’s first name, but then Hitsugaya responded to it and they stared.

“Momo? Momo, it hurts…” the white-haired teenager whimpered weakly, his resistance ceasing instantly. His eyelids fluttered weakly - he’d spent energy that he didn’t have, and it was clear that he was slipping further and further out reach. Yamada sighed, gently stroking the delirious boy’s face, tears standing in his eyes, and dropped all pretense of the professional attitude that the Fourth gave to their shinigami patients. Instead, he let himself soften, let a smile descend on his lips, and carefully slid the young teenager further into his lap until the young boy lay cradled in his arms, caring for the dying boy like he would for a sick child stricken by nightmares. Gently, he felt for the boy’s pulse again. It had gotten fainter.

“Shh…your Onee-san isn’t here right now.” he said gently, and with immense willpower he held back a broken sob as the babbling started up again. “Shh…shh, Toushiro-kun. You’re okay. I promise you’re going to be okay.”

Hitsugaya blinked sleepily up at the man above him, the fever-hazed emerald of his gaze refusing to focus. The glassy stare was frighteningly distant.

“Momo-nee…I wanna see Momo-nee-chan…before sleep…” he murmured faintly. Yamada brushed the thick chunk of white bangs out of his captain’s closing eyes, his shoulders shaking, but he kept the boy cradled close. He felt it acutely when the boy nuzzled his burning face a little closer, seeking comfort in the embrace, the reality of the situation striking him hard.

“It’s okay, kiddo.” he whispered, pressing a desperate kiss to Hitsugaya’s blazing brow. “She’s coming, I promise, but you have to stay with me.”

Hitsugaya’s head lolled, but his eyes stayed open. His chest twitched a bit as his breathing hitched for a moment. The feverish child hummed quietly then, relaxing fully in the arms of the man holding him, looking for all the world like a child going to sleep in his father’s embrace. Yamada couldn’t help finally letting a sob out as he watched the boy slip away, his body starting to finally shut down. The temperature of the boy’s skin began to fall slowly.

“Don’t die.” Yamada whispered. “Don’t you die on me, Toushiro.”

Hitsugaya’s eyes slid closed, a soft sigh puffing from the pale lips. His expression was vaguely melancholy, but he looked peaceful, and Yamada felt his heart break. Green kaido flared brightly around his palm, which he pressed firmly to Hitsugaya’s chest, tears streaming down his face from his dark eyes. His jaw was set in a vicious snarl.

“No!” he choked. “No! I am _not_ watching a kid die. I am not watching you die. Don’t you _dare_ die on me.”

The kaido spluttered, the reiatsu pulsing from the medic’s hand forcing the teenager’s heart to keep beating, forcing the boy to keep breathing as energy sank into his core in a desperate attempt to give the dying child more time. The fever flared back to life, but at this point Yamada didn’t care. And from the looks of horror on their faces, neither did Takada or his unseated squadmates. They’d all realized the terrible truth of Hitsugaya’s delirious ramblings and the youth of his fear-filled stare.

Their captain was nothing more than a child too brave to run from a fight and too scared to show his youth. And somehow, that made his death all the more tragic, because underneath all those layers of strength and power and confidence was a little boy from Rukongai who never wanted to be a shinigami in the first place.

Takada didn’t even realize she was crying until the sound of Kyomon shattering reached her ears and she whirled around to see a long sheaf of white hair and billowing haori, Captain Ukitake’s kindly face contorting in horror as he beheld the small figure lying limp in his subordinates’ arms. Without even as much as a word to them, Ukitake dropped to his knees, a green blaze of kaido much more powerful than what Yamada could conjure enveloping his palms as he laid them over Hitsugaya’s heart and punctured, infected stomach. The members of the Tenth Division watched as Hitsugaya took a shaky gulp of air under Ukitake’s ministrations, his breathing gaining strength enough to reassure them, and Yamada broke down entirely as not one, not two, but _three_ fully-fledged members of the Fourth Division ran forward, one of them assisting Captain Ukitake with the white-haired child lying motionless on the cave floor.

The members of the Tenth Division who were still conscious enough to comprehend their rescue all sobbed uncontrollably as Ukitake lifted Hitsugaya in his arms and disappeared in a flash of Shunpo, leaving Lieutenant Kuchiki to take command. The shinigami of the Thirteenth exchanged long, confused looks, well aware that Hitsugaya’s men were not the type to go to pieces so quickly. Kuchiki approached quickly, raising a dark eyebrow at the Tenth Seat, her violet stare wide in puzzlement and full of an unasked question. Takada raised her head after a moment, tears streaming helplessly down her face.

“Be…be glad your…” she choked on the words for a moment. “Be glad your captain is fully grown.”

Rukia’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“What in Seireitei do you mean by that?” she snapped, insulted on Hitsugaya’s behalf. Then Yamada raised his head weakly, something broken in his gaze.

“You don’t have to listen to a child scream every time your captain is in pain.” he whispered. “You won’t ever have to watch a little boy slip away while you sit at his side, powerless to stop him from slowly dying right before your eyes because he’s stronger than you ever could be in the first place.”

Rukia’s gaze cleared and she quieted then, remembering what it had been like to watch Hitsugaya wincing in pain after the first battle with the Arrancar in Karakura. His youth had surfaced in a painful, poignant reminder of the child hidden inside his icy shell whenever his wounds had pulled, no matter how hard he’d tried to hide it. Everyone had seen it - the way his eyes widened in naive incomprehension, the fearful tightening of his jaw as his mind whirred against the pain of his injuries. And for these five, that painful reminder of their captain’s incredible youth must have been excruciating. It was one thing to lose your captain - they were adults, and while it was an incredible blow, there was always an underlying sense of relief when they died nobly, defending their duty or innocent civilians. But to lose a child in the same moment? There was very little that could justify a child’s death, not even that which might make a captain’s death less terribly tragic.

So the ice-wielding lieutenant just sighed and bowed her head.

“I understand.”

The journey back to Seireitei was long and tiring, but the shinigami from the Thirteenth were more than happy to help their Tenth Division counterparts whenever necessary, and by the time that the group had once again reached the walls of Seireitei they had regained their reiatsu for the most part. Lieutenant Kuchiki saw them back to their barracks, where Matsumoto looked the ragged group over with a tired eye then ordered them to be sent off to the mess hall to be stuffed full of food and promptly put to bed.

Yamada didn’t sleep for a long while, the horrific memories of his captain’s slow descent into a fever-induced shutdown haunting him, but finally his body gave out from exhaustion and the man passed out. He slept for two days straight, woke up and ate once, then promptly passed out again until nightfall the same day. Then and only then did he stand from his bed and exit the room he shared with two others, stepping quietly into the barracks hallway and meandering slowly towards the communal recreation room. He could hear the soft chatter of his fellow Tenth Division members echoing quietly - and then he caught Hitsugaya’s name.

“...Taicho is still in the Fourth, then?”

“Yeah, he’s still very ill. I heard Matsumoto-fukutaicho talking with Takada about it. Apparently he almost died, but Yamada-san managed to hold on to him for just long enough that help got there in time.”

“Shit, I knew Yamada was in the Fourth, but he must have been really good. I heard Taicho got pretty fucked up protecting the Tenth Squad.”

Yamada paused just long enough to hear that before he felt a flare of panic course through his chest, heart clenching at the memory of the dying child captain murmuring heartbreaking nonsense in his arms. He didn’t realize he’d cried out until he felt hands on him, carefully walking him over to a chair and sitting him down firmly.

“Easy, Yamada-san, you’re back home.” someone was saying kindly, but the only thing that the field medic could focus on was the horrifying realization that wouldn’t leave him. He let out a soft sob, putting a hand over his face. People were clustering around - not close enough to choke him, but close enough to watch as he disintegrated in the small chair. He felt a hand start rubbing his back and sent whoever that was a silent prayer of thanks, the touch very calming as he shook. Then another someone spoke again.

“Hey, Yamada-san, you should be proud of what you did out there.” that person said quietly, their voice soft. It sounded very familiar, but in his distress, he couldn’t place it. “You managed to save four of our guys, including Taicho.”

“Proud?” Yamada couldn’t take it. He lifted his head, staring their Third Seat in the face, tears streaming from his eyes. “Me, _proud? _What reason do I have for pride? I sat there and watched as a _little boy_ slowly slipped away from me, begging for his older sister over and over. I healed a _child_ who shouldn’t even be on the battlefield in the first place, and the second he’s at full health everyone’s just going to throw him out there again and expect him to be able to do _everything_ that adults should still be doing for him! He shouldn’t have had to protect us - shouldn’t have been hurt trying to keep the adults safe when it’s _our fucking job to protect kids like him!_”

The Third Seat reared back in shock, then glared ferociously at the raging medic, anger clear on his face.

“How _dare_ you talk about the captain that way, Yamada! You’re out of line!” he snapped, eyebrows twitching, and he took a threatening step forward. Then a soft voice called, the tone heavy with grief.

“So you saw it, huh?”

Yamada and the Third Seat looked up to see Matsumoto leaning tiredly against the doorframe, her lieutenant’s badge hanging from her obi. Dark shadows graced the bags under her eyes, and her men felt sick when they realized that the stress of the captain’s condition was likely causing her ragged appearance. Then Yamada processed what she said, his brow furrowing. Matsumoto smiled regretfully, forlorn grief in those blue stars in her face.

“You saw the child instead of the captain.” she clarified. Yamada felt his heart stop. He swallowed thickly.

“I…you’ve seen it too.”

Matsumoto’s delicate brows knitted together, and she dipped her head with a sad sigh.

“All too often.” she said quietly. “His youth shows whenever he’s in pain or ill - and you know I’m the one who cares for him when he’s sick, let alone the number of times I’ve seen him injured in battle. I’m well aware of how incredibly young he is. But…after the years I’ve served with him, both as his superior and subordinate, I’ve understood that he refuses to try to regain his youth at any opportunity. He…he’s completely committed to this division, and he won’t let anything get in the way of that.”

Yamada slowly shook his head, choking back his tears of horror with a single, plaintive question.

“Why…why can’t we let him be a child?” he whispered. Matsumoto smiled sadly.

“Because he’s too powerful for us to let him do that.”


End file.
